Pryor Cousins

Chapter 1-2

He climbed aboard and flung himself into one corner, head tipped back, eyes closed, then sat up abruptly and rifled through the roomy pockets beneath either window. Was there a hip flask of whiskey tucked into one of them . . . ? Yes, there was. Excellent.

Dex cracked open the hip flask, slouched back in the corner he’d chosen, and settled in for a good sulk lubricated by strong spirits.

His good sulk lasted all of five minutes before the coach drew to an unexpected halt.

Dex opened the window and peered out. They were on Wimbledon Heath. He saw the dark shapes of trees, the silver disk of the moon, the shadowy figures of the coachman and footman perched high on the box.

“Something wrong?” he called out.

“Highwaymen,” the coachman replied in a low voice. “They’ve stopped a coach up ahead.”

Stopped a coach?

The viscountess’s coach?

Dex flung open the door and jumped down. “How many of them?”

“Looks like three, sir.”

“You have a blunderbuss?”

“Yes, sir.” The footman flourished it, the barrel glinting dully in the moonlight.

“Loaded?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Stay at the ready, both of you. I’ll shout if I need assistance.”

“But sir—” the coachman protested, at the same time that the footman said, bewildered, “Don’t you want the blunderbuss?”

Dex ignored them both and set off in the direction of the beleaguered coach. Highwaymen generally didn’t harm their victims—but that didn’t mean that people weren’t sometimes hurt, or even killed. If Lady Fortrose was too uncooperative or if the highwaymen noticed her striking good looks and decided to r****h her . . .

He ran towards the dark shape of the coach sixty yards ahead, his dancing shoes almost silent on the hardpacked dirt. The moon was full and currently unconcealed by clouds, its light illuminating the road and himself, but no one noticed his approach. One masked and mounted man held the coachman and footman at gunpoint; the other two ruffians had dismounted, the better to assist their victims in the removal of their valuables. No removal of valuables appeared to be taking place, however. The French comtesse was in the throes of rather loud hysterics, collapsed on the ground with Lady Fortrose attending her, her shrieks shrill and incoherent. The baron was berating the villains in overwrought Russian, arms flailing, voice booming, as stentorian as a watchman, quite drowning out the rogues’ attempts to impose order. One scoundrel was futilely commanding everyone to shut up, while the other was repeating, in rather harassed tones, the standard demand of highwaymen everywhere: “Your money or your lives!”

The French shrieks and Russian oration perfectly concealed the ever-so-faint crunch of Dex’s footsteps. He slowed from headlong run to stealthy tiptoe, slipping silently into the shadows on the far side of the coach, directing his attention to the mounted highwayman first. He appeared to be the least distracted of the three villains, and it wouldn’t do for anyone to be shot.

Dex didn’t have a blunderbuss, but that didn’t mean that he was helpless. Far from it. He was one of only ten people in England who possessed magic—the other nine being his father, grandfather, three uncles, and four cousins—and he could rout a trio of highwaymen with both hands tied behind his back.

He needed to rout them without anyone noticing the magic, though.

Rather obligingly, a cloud drifted over the moon, plunging the road into gloom.

Levitation was the magic that Dex possessed, and he used it now, lifting the mounted highwayman from his saddle, hoisting the man high, flinging him into the clutch of one of the hulking, shadowy trees that lined the road. He floated the blunderbuss from the villain’s grip while he was at it and lobbed it into the dark embrace of the night.

The man yelped, but the sound was swallowed by the comtesse’s shrieks and the baron’s bellows.

One ruffian down.

The coachman and footman were dim shapes on the box, staring stiffly ahead, fearful of the blunderbuss. Dex hurried to them and gripped the coachman’s ankle. The man yelped, much as the highwayman had yelped.

“Quiet!” Dex whispered fiercely. “Hold the horses steady and leave everything to me.”

The highwayman’s mount stood riderless. Dex released the coachman’s ankle, scooped up a stone, and flung it at the horse’s hindquarters, his aim aided by more judicious application of his magic.

The horse bolted down the road at a gallop.

Dex slipped around to the other side of the carriage.

The moon began to reappear, shedding ghostly silver light upon the scene. The comtesse’s shrieks petered out and the baron fell silent. Everyone—robbers and victims alike—was staring in the direction of the rapidly departing and riderless horse.

“Joe? You all right?” one of the two remaining highwaymen called out.

“Help!” Joe wailed from the tree Dex had flung him into.

The two villains exchanged a glance. Both had mufflers concealing their lower faces. One man leveled a pistol at Lady Fortrose and her companions; the other holstered his weapon, strode to his horse, grabbed the reins, and swung up into the saddle. Dex assisted him, his magic boosting the man up and over his horse. He fell in the dirt on the other side with a thump and a squawk.

There was an astonished silence.

Dex chortled soundlessly, and used his magic to relieve the fallen highwayman of his pistol, levitating it from the man’s holster, disposing of it stealthily in the shrubs on the far side of the road. The moon was fully out now, but no one would notice such sleight of hand.

“Harry?” the last highwayman standing said. “What you doin’?”

Harry scrambled to his feet and ran around his horse, belligerent and bewildered in the moonlight. Dex stepped forward to meet him. He punched the man solidly on the chin. A touch of levitation and the highwayman soared backwards across the full width of the road before tumbling into the ditch.

It looked rather impressive.

“Heh,” Dex said, rather pleased with himself. He shook out his fist and turned to find everyone was staring at him—comtesse, baron, viscountess, highwayman.

The sole pistol was pointing at him now, too.

He realized his danger an instant before the highwayman fired. There was a c***k of sound, but his magic levitated the bullet, up into the dark sky, where it expended its lethal energy harmlessly.

Dex strode to the highwayman, took hold of the barrel of the pistol, wrenched it from his grip, and tossed it away.

The highwayman uttered a sound that was neither yelp nor squawk but more a bark of astonishment. He put up his fists.

Dex punched him. The blow didn’t connect well, his knuckles barely grazing the man’s cheek, but only he and the highwayman knew that. His magic did the rest: lifting the man off his feet, hurling him back into the carriage with a resounding thud.

The highwayman slid down the side of the carriage as if his legs were boneless and collapsed in a heap on the road.

“Heh,” Dex said again, very pleased with himself. It was rather fun playing the hero. He shook out his fist for verisimilitude and turned to his rescuees. Was that a word? Rescuee? He decided it was.

They were all staring at him, the comtesse lying on the road, propped up on one elbow, Lady Fortrose kneeling alongside her, the baron standing, with his mouth open and his arms frozen in mid-oratory flail.

“Everyone all right?” Dex inquired.

His rescuees gaped at him.

While they were gaping, the second highwayman, Harry, scrambled out of the ditch and attempted to mount his horse. Dex assisted him magically again, up and over and into the dirt on the other side. He couldn’t repress a cackle. This was rather amusing. He grinned at his audience and repeated his question: “Everyone all right?”

There was a moment’s pause, and then Lady Fortrose said, “Yes. Thank you.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.” He gave a sweeping bow.

Harry made another attempt to climb onto his horse. Up and over he went, landing in the dirt again. Dex decided that three times was enough for that particular trick. He crossed to the confused horse and gave its haunch a hearty slap. The beast took off into the night.

Harry looked up at him from the dirt. His muffler had slipped down below his nose. Above it, his eyes were very round, the whites showing.

“I’d run, if I were you,” Dex informed him.

Harry hauled himself to his feet and did just that.

Dex listened until the man’s footfalls had faded to nothing, then turned back to the carriage. Lady Fortrose and the baron were fussing over the comtesse, helping her to her feet, brushing the dirt from her gown. The footman had climbed down from the box and was gingerly brandishing a blunderbuss at the third highwayman. The coachman sat high above them all, reins in hand, horses firmly under control, commanding the footman to “Hold the fiend there! Don’t let him get away!”

The footman looked as if he wanted to climb back up on the box. He retreated a step as the third highwayman staggered to his feet. The ruffian steadied himself against the coach for a moment, then lurched towards his horse.

“I think not,” Dex said. A flick of his fingers and a stone levitated up from the ground and pinged the horse on its rump. The animal set off down the road with a thunder of hooves.

The highwayman stared after it in dismay.

The footman gingerly brandished the blunderbuss again.

Dex removed the weapon from the servant’s grip. He was likely to shoot someone’s foot off, holding it like that. “Off you go,” he told the highwayman. “Unless you wish to decorate the gallows?”

The highwayman tottered hurriedly into the darkness.

Dex chortled under his breath, very pleased with himself. He turned back to the coach. The viscountess, the comtesse, and the baron were all staring at him.

Dex stopped feeling quite so pleased with himself. Why were they looking at him like that? It wasn’t as if anyone could have seen him use his magic. It was nighttime, after all. They’d think he’d thrown that stone at the horse, not flicked it with his magic.

“Well, that was an adventure!” he declared, rather inanely.

The comtesse and the baron exchanged a glance. Lady Fortrose regarded him with narrow-eyed thoughtfulness.

The footman scurried over to the comtesse and busied himself brushing the most obvious dirt from her gown, the coachman was intent on his horses, but the viscountess, comtesse, and baron were all looking at Dex as if they might possibly have noticed the magic. Which they couldn’t have, because it was the middle of the night and the moon, while bright, wasn’t that bright.

thatDex cleared his throat with a disconcerted “Er-hem,” and turned away from those unsettling stares. He gave a piercing whistle and shouted, “You can come along now!”

His grandfather’s carriage came along.

“The rogues are long gone,” Dex assured Lady Fortrose and her companions. “You’re safe now, I promise.”

His rescuees didn’t look completely convinced. In fact, they looked rather dubious. And they were all still staring at him.

Dex decided that those stares were because they doubted their safety. It had been a rather alarming incident, after all. They’d probably been in fear of their lives.

“I tell you what, I’ll ride up on your box with the coachman. I’ll carry this blunderbuss. No one will dare stop us.”

This pronouncement didn’t appear to overwhelm his rescuees with relief. They still showed an alarming tendency to stare at him. They did, however, climb back into their carriage. Dex closed the door and scrambled up onto the box seat, alongside the coachman and footman.

The coach lurched into motion with a clip-clop of hooves. His grandfather’s coach fell in behind.

clip-clopDex cradled the blunderbuss on his lap. Wimbledon Heath trundled past on either side—shrubs, bushes, trees. The moon shone down, a bright silver disk, beautiful and indifferent.

All was well in the world—viscountess rescued, highwaymen routed—but he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was wrong.